Roslin Tully
Old Frey firmly believed that even after marrying and leaving for another house, his daughters and granddaughters would not cease to be Freys and could still bring benefit to the Twins.
He had especially high hopes for her and Liata. He had thought that the Young Wolf, Robb Stark, would choose one of them, seduced by beauty. But Robb disappointed him, proving himself a foolish and self-assured lord who chased after the charm of a completely unknown girl and preferred not to think about the political consequences of such a step.
Walder Frey never forgave him for that. And rightly so, in Roslin's opinion. The Starks had always been arrogant bastards who liked to speak of honor—usually proving and displaying it at the expense of other, weaker lords.
"It's a pity my father never taught me anything like that," Edmure sighed, a note of regret in his voice.
"It is a pity," Roslin agreed, leaning close to his ear again. "Sooner or later the war will end. Joffrey will kill Littlefinger and the Blackfish, and then Black Walder, who I am quite certain of this murdered my father. The king's kin will crush the Greyjoys as they have done before, and everything will settle down. The king said that the Twins will remain with the Freys if we—you and I—give no reason to doubt our loyalty. And not just any Freys, but those I love and who love me. Perhaps such an honor will fall to my own brother, Perwyn Frey, or my nephew Osmund. Though they are still very young."
"The king said that? When?"
"One day," Roslin replied.
She explained that when it happened there had been three of them in the room—the king himself, Margaery, and her. Joffrey had spoken in hints, clearly testing her wits. It had seemed like an empty conversation, meaningless words—but there had been far more substance beneath them.
Now that she understood Joffrey was not the bloodthirsty monster half of Westeros believed him to be, but a thoughtful, cunning, and well-read ruler, her opinion of him had changed. Their conversations—he often spoke with her—had begun to bring her real satisfaction and pleasure. It was as though the king had decided she was someone with whom business could be conducted, having recognized her intelligence and her ability to grasp things quickly.
Yes, the king had spoken, and in his words were hints of what he required from the Tullys and the Freys. There were promises there as well—of what he might give in return. And by now everyone already knew that the king did not scatter his word lightly and valued it more highly than gold.
And he was handsome, gallant, intelligent, well-read, and courageous. Half the women in the Red Keep dreamed of sharing his bed and secretly envied Margaery. And if Roslin herself had not been so deeply in love with her own husband, she might have admitted that she liked the king. Even the simple idea of flirting with Joffrey excited her. Though if Margaery ever learned of such thoughts, she would never forgive her.
"In time, if we maintain our friendship, we will become not merely a great house but one that stands close to the king. One he will wish to bind to himself by marriage with his children. Do you understand, Ed?"
"I understand… but my kin are there—Lysa, my nephew Robert, and the Blackfish."
"And here you have me and your son. And Sansa—your niece—and her daughter, and Riverrun. After all, Riverrun begins with the Red Keep, too. Joffrey is no fool, and he will not let us leave the castle until everything is settled! Do you understand?"
"He has put me in a very difficult position!"
"What else could be done? We placed ourselves in it. Now we must find a way out. Hasn't the king already shown that he can be fair and generous?"
She spoke, but she did not feel she had fully convinced her husband. Usually he listened to sensible arguments, but at times, out of sheer stubbornness, he could go against them and make a complete mess of things.
"Yes… that has happened," Lord Tully admitted reluctantly. The truth was undeniable. In recent times the king had fulfilled all his promises and done a great deal of good.
"One does not look for better when one already has good. We must sacrifice something in order not to lose everything."
Her hand—so deft and gentle—unfastened the buttons of Edmure's shirt. Then her fingers slid slowly downward, quickly dealing with the belt at his trousers before slipping lower still. Edmure himself jokingly called it "catching the trout."
Roslin enjoyed sex and had quickly mastered many of its subtleties. The royal court, after all, was full of women willing to share their secrets—how to keep a man close and how to make him desire you constantly and with undiminished passion.
And she loved doing it with her husband—who was so tireless and experienced. What did it matter that she was still talking? Everyone talked during sex.
Edmure suddenly pulled her toward him and captured her lips in a fierce kiss. His hands—the hands of an experienced lover and a capable warrior—caressed her confidently and skillfully. They lifted the hem of her dress, slipped between her thighs, and after a moment drew a soft moan from her lips.
"Not there yet, Ed," Roslin murmured. She felt the warmth rising low in her belly, felt her undergarments grow damp, but remembered the maester's order—no bedplay for the first week after childbirth. She kissed her husband again and slid down the bed toward his feet.
"Like this will do…"
And before long, Edmure Tully closed his eyes, burying his hands in his wife's hair and pressing her head against his groin.